


Forgiveness, Can You Imagine?

by kijilinn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Parent Dean, Parent Reader, dean/reader marriage, death of a child, married reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kijilinn/pseuds/kijilinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when the unthinkable happens? When you're holding your dying child in your arms?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness, Can You Imagine?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hamilton: The Musical](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/225127) by Lin-Manuel Miranda. 



> Written for a Hamilton/Supernatural writing challenge on tumblr. All lyrics are taken from Hamilton: The Musical by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

 

_ There are moments that the words don’t reach _ __   
_ There is suffering too terrible to name _ __   
_ You hold your child as tight as you can _ __   
_ And push away the unimaginable _ __   
_ The moments when you’re in so deep _ _   
_ __ It feels easier to just swim down

You haven’t seen the outside. Not since it happened. Not since the moment you held your son in your arms, watched his life snuff out. You haven’t seen his father, his uncle. You haven’t seen anyone.

You’ve seen nothing but the inside of your room, the framed photograph of your son, held in your arms the day he was born. 

If you hadn’t loved his father, this never would have happened. He wouldn’t have happened, either. You know that. But it’s easier to blame than grieve. He was only sixteen. But so ready, he thought. So ready for the hunt. So ready to be side by side with his father, with his uncle, with the angel. 

So ready. 

But you were never ready. You begged him to wait, to train just a little more. To stay with you, stick to support and research. To be safe. To stay alive. You hugged him so hard that morning before they left. He kissed your cheek, smiled like it was any other day. Just a jaunt in the sun. Dean kissed you, promised he would be safe, that he’d bring him home to you. 

He promised. He fucking promised you.

And then they came back.

The world had slowed to a crawl as the alarms blared through the bunker. You had run to the garage, carrying the first aid kit in one hand and a shotgun in the other, ready to help, ready to kill.

And Sam fell out of the driver’s seat. He looked up at you, his face streaked with tears and blood and slime. “Y/N,” he gasped and his voice broke as he looked away. Castiel was standing at the passenger side door, breathing hard. 

Dean held your son in the back seat. He was rocking slowly back and forth, tears running down his face. You had stumbled to the door, tried to open it and failed when your hands forgot the mechanics of the handle. How could you ever imagine a world without your son? How could anything ever work the way it had before? The door was baffling, wrong. 

Castiel put a hand gently on your shoulder and opened the door for you. He held it aside as you had crawled into the backseat of the Impala, as you gathered your broken child from his father. You knew Dean was saying something, but you didn’t hear him. You didn’t see him. You saw nothing.

Nothing but your son’s still face. 

Nothing but the curve of his cheek, scruffy with the almost-beard he had been so proud of. 

Nothing but his hair, matted with blood but still hinting at his father’s color.

The freckles on his nose alternating with the spatters and smears of mud. 

He took a breath and it was like someone had given you life again. His dark eyes opened, lashes flecked with tears. “Mom,” he whispered and you heard Dean’s choked sob. “Mom, I’m okay.” His hands tightened on yours and he smiled, “I’m home. See? Dad brought me home.”

“Shhhh,” you hushed him and stroked his face. “Save your strength. Stay alive.”

His smile held, but the focus in his eyes was going. “No,” Dean hissed. “No, no, no, stay with me. Stay awake!” He gently shook your son’s shoulder, “John, stay awake!” He looked up at you and then over your shoulder to Castiel, “Cas, please!”

“I can’t,” Castiel whispered. The angel’s voice was broken, full of a sorrow he couldn’t begin to express in words. “I’m drained. The fight was too much. I have nothing left.”

“I’m okay,” John said and you felt his fingers squeeze yours again. “I’m okay, Mom.” He closed his eyes and a look of pain crossed his face briefly, his eyes tightening at the corners like Dean’s did when he was hurt. “Just… tired.”

“There’s nothing we can do.” Castiel’s voice was tired, heavy. “We brought him to you so you could say goodbye, Y/N. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

You held your child in your arms. You pushed away what Castiel was saying. You couldn’t say goodbye. Not now. Not yet. 

_ If I could spare his life _ __   
_ If I could trade his life for mine _ __   
_ He’d be standing here right now _ __   
_ And you would smile, and that would be enough _ __   
_ I don’t pretend to know _ __   
_ The challenges we’re facing _ __   
_ I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost _ __   
_ And you need time _ __   
_ But I’m not afraid _ __   
_ I know who I married _ __   
_ Just let me stay here by your side _ _   
_ __ That would be enough

Distantly, on the other side of the door, you hear Dean singing. It’s now. You know when you are. Where you are. The bunker. Eight days after your son died. And his father is singing.

Singing words you don’t know and his voice is soft. You can’t quite hear the words. But the melody is clear, his voice steady. 

“Forgiveness. Can you imagine? Forgiveness.”

You lift your head from the pillow. Your arms are weak under you and you realize that you have no idea how long it’s been since you ate last. Dean’s voice continues to repeat the same phrase of music, like he’s stuck. Like a record that has skipped. 

And his voice breaks then as he gasps out your name in the same note progression. 

You open the door to find him leaning against it, facing the hall. When the doorknob turns, he scrambles to his knees to face you, his face streaked in tears. “Y/N,” he says. “I don’t deserve you, Y/N. I know I don’t. But… please.”

You reach for him then and he curls his arms around your waist, presses his face against your belly and he sobs. You hold him as he holds you. 

_ Have pity. They are going through the unimaginable. _


End file.
